


Her Current is Pulling You Closer

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Series: A Summer in Cintra [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series, Swimming, just otp being soft, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23074579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: After nearly three years of marriage, Eist Tuirseach realizes there are still things to learn about his wife.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Series: A Summer in Cintra [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658368
Comments: 15
Kudos: 66





	Her Current is Pulling You Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely on the depictions and canon of the 2019 series, with a dash of stuff gleaned from the fandom wiki.
> 
> Title comes from Jaskier's ballad, Sweet Kiss.

“Eist.” There is a warning in his wife’s tone. Then, something sharper, quicker, beyond ignoring: “ _Eist!_ ”

He stops, turning to look back to the bank of the river, where Calanthe still sits, her hooded expression as impassive as always. Her pose seems relaxed, but he knows her well enough to notice the way she’s leaned forward, ever-so-slightly, every muscle tensed, the way the lines around her mouth deepen and tighten, ready to outright growl if need be.

The lioness is in mother bear mode, he knows.

In his hands, Cirilla squirms, feeling even lighter than usual with the water to buoy her. She’ll be two years old, come the autumn. She’s already a daring little madcap, climbing and running and very often falling, much to Calanthe’s constant worry and dismay. Pavetta was never this wild, she often bemoans, though he doesn’t miss the proud gleam in her eye that negates most of her complaining.

In fact, they’re only here because of Ciri. Summer is giving its last full bellow of power, the air heavy and oppressive with the added humidity from the nearby sea. The castle itself has begun to feel like an oven, its ostentatious glass windows becoming a bane rather than a beauty. It’s maddening for adults, much more so for a small child who isn’t fully accustomed to the sweltering heat.

Calanthe had suggested a walk in the nearby fields, where a breeze could be found and the constant stream of courtiers and knights was nonexistent. They’d come far enough to reach this smaller branch of the river, where Ciri splashed at the edges, taking delight in the coolness of the loamy sand beneath her feet.

Eist had, naturally, removed his overclothes and dove in. Ciri had squealed and giggled, and then he’d returned to shore to bring her in with him as well.

Now that she’s in the water, the toddler isn’t as delighted.

“She’s frightened,” Calanthe nods, barely. Her dark eyes never leave Eist’s face, but even still, it’s obvious that all her focus is on her granddaughter.

Eist looks back down at Cirilla. The water is just above his waist; he keeps his hands under her armpits so that she’s submerged up to her chest. Her little face is serious, almost adorably so—and yes, lined with fear.

“Of course she is,” Eist returns easily. “Every child is scared, at first. Then they take to it like a fish.”

His wife’s mouth sets into a thin, hard line. She isn’t arguing, but he knows that at the first cry from Ciri, she’ll be on her feet and at his throat.

She may not be the softest of grandmothers, but she dotes and spoils nonetheless, he thinks with a grin.

His amusement does not help his wife’s humor. Still, she merely arches a brow with a short, frustrated sigh. He winks in response and she looks away. The corner of her mouth quivers, almost too quick to be seen—but Eist has seen and he feels a rush of victory. So few can break the mighty queen’s mask, and he is lucky to be one.

“Now,” he turns back to his granddaughter, who is still watching him with those big green eyes that could swallow the whole world, still small and frightened but full of trust. “Away we go.”

He pushes against the rocks at the bottom of the river, gliding backwards as he slips further into the water. Little Ciri’s body goes stiff and her breathing quickens and rises to an audible level.

“Eist.” The edge is back in Calanthe’s voice, so low that it’s almost a growl. Ciri tenses further at the tone. Her fast breathing becomes small whimpering sounds, nerves and fear causing her to shake. Eist reassures her in a low, calm tone, easily keeping both of their heads above water.

Calanthe has shifted closer but isn’t to her feet. Ciri looks over and makes another small cry of distress.

That’s all it takes. Calanthe is on her feet, moving closer to the water, “Eist, enough. She’s just a baby. She—”

“Is feeding off your fear,” Eist informs her, looking up at his wife. Even now, his frustration is quickly muted by her beauty—she stands every inch the terrible queen of ballads and poetry, ready to fight to death to save her granddaughter from an imagined terror. “You are the greatest strength she’s ever witnessed, Calanthe. If you are afraid, then it must be a terrifying thing indeed, in her mind.”

She lets her eyes flick heavenward, a half-hearted eyeroll at his subtle flattery.

“She will be fine, if you let her,” he adds, letting his tone grow gentler.

He knows he’s won by his wife’s hard swallow, the blink that could almost be a nod of assent. Calanthe’s shoulders ease and he knows she’s trying to calm herself as she slowly sinks back down again, hand fluttering over the pile of cloaks and shoes and overclothes that Eist and Ciri left behind. She tries to smile, for Ciri’s sake, though the worry is still screaming from her dark eyes.

“You could join us,” he suggests.

“I’m not one for swimming, Eist, you know that.”

He does. He’s heard this exact same response many a time now. But it isn’t until this moment that he realizes her full meaning.

“You don’t know how.” It is a statement, still tinged with questioning.

His wife resumes her usual stoic expression and he has his answer.

Still, she supplies, “It was far more important to master horseback and swordplay.”

A valid point for a continental ruler, whose nation was not nearly as intertwined with the seas as Skellige.

 _Still_.

“I married a woman who cannot swim.” Half of his shock is feigned, as he pulls Ciri closer. She clutches his shoulders eagerly, suddenly less afraid with her grandfather’s arms wrapped fully around her. “Gods help me, after all this time, how did I not know?”

Now Calanthe smirks, crossing her arms over her chest as she settles further back, visibly more relaxed. “You were perhaps too focused on my…other skills.”

“Indeed,” he agrees heartily and without hesitation, his grin deepening at the way Calanthe’s face blooms into a smugly satisfied expression. Still, he cannot help but tease, “Though now I feel I must reconsider the entire marriage.”

Her mouth hooks into an almost-wolfish grin, “I’m afraid you’ve been far too thoroughly wedded and bedded to back out now.”

Her hooded gaze says the rest: _You’re mine, Eist Tuirseach. I’ve claimed you a hundred times over, I’ll do it a thousand more._

He merely grins, unable to deny it and never really wanting to anyways.

Ciri, now fully comfortable, smacks a chubby hand on the water, giving a small giggle at the splash it makes.

Calanthe’s rather lustful gaze melts into pure adoration as she turns her attention back to her granddaughter.

“See? She’s fine,” Eist points out, rather unnecessarily.

“She feels safe in your arms,” Calanthe’s tone is low and warm. He understands the unspoken part _: I know the feeling. I feel safe in your arms, too._

“Well, let’s not stay _too_ safe,” he declares with a grin and a wink, taking Ciri and tossing her into the air. Water droplets cast and catch the light like falling diamonds as she squeals and giggles wildly. He repeats the toss, each time letting more of her body dip into the water—first just her feet, then up to her knees, then to her belly button. She’s shrieking in delight, fully over any fear she may have held. He holds her overhead again, blowing a raspberry on her tummy through the soaked fabric of her undershirt. Ciri giggles like a maniac and underneath the high-pitched sound, he can hear a soft, low chuckle from the banks. He turns back to see Calanthe, standing closer again, face so soft with syrupy-warm affection that his lungs forget their purpose for a full beat.

Ciri, so fully aware of how deeply and easily she commands her grandmother’s attention and affection, reaches for Calanthe, still beaming as she calls, “Lie-na, Lie-na!”

The moniker always makes Eist grin. Surprisingly, Calanthe had no qualms about being called grandmother, but Ciri had easily picked up on the language of others, quickly piecing together that _Lioness_ and _Grandmother_ were the same person. Unable to fully pronounce _lioness_ , she’d begun calling Calanthe _Lie-na_. It had been too precious to correct.

“Come, my darling,” Calanthe extends her arms as well, beckoning them back to shore. Eist rises out of the water, handing his granddaughter to his wife. Calanthe doesn’t fuss or flinch, pulling the soaking wet child close and peppering her cheeks with kisses, quietly exclaiming how cold they feel. She turns her attention back to her husband, not even attempting to disguise the way her gaze rakes over his form as he comes out of the water. She bites her bottom lip and Eist’s blood quickens with the knowledge of exactly what she would do to him, if they were alone. He merely grins at his wife’s lecherous ways, scooping up his summer cloak from the pile of garments on the ground and wrapping it around Ciri. It’s warmed from the sun and the child snuggles into it, leaning back slightly into his hand on her shoulder before diving forward against Calanthe’s collarbone with a thud. Not that Eist blames her. His wife’s chest is a favored resting place for his own head.

“I should teach you to swim,” he suggests, leaning in for a quick peck on her lips. He can feel her smile against his own. In a lower tone, he adds, “After dark, when everyone else is asleep in their beds.”

She merely hums, readjusting his cloak so that Ciri is fully wrapped up in it. She doesn’t outright refuse, and that’s victory enough.

“Come, Ciri, it’s well past time for your nap.” She nuzzles against the blonde head nestled on her shoulder. With a quick, searing glance in her husband’s direction, she adds, “I think we could all do with a bit of a lie-down.”

Eist Tuirseach has the distinct impression that their time in bed will be far less restful that Ciri’s. He grins in anticipation.

“And maybe,” Calanthe turns, moving back up the bank with air of nonchalance, her voice rising as she moves further away. “You’ll be able to convince me to go swimming, dear sea hound.”

It’s both a challenge and an invitation, he knows.

“I’ll try my best,” he informs her, pulling his tunic over his head.

Her hum of amusement warms him more than the sun ever could, “Of that I have no doubt.”

He finishes drying and dressing, scaling the steep river bank as he hurries to catch up. Further ahead, Ciri’s blonde hair shines in the early afternoon sun as Calanthe’s hips sway gently through the tall summer grasses, as graceful and self-assured as any lion. He closes the distance between them, easily taking Ciri into his arms again as Calanthe takes the rest of Ciri’s clothes in exchange. Ciri nestles against him, without a sound, already half-asleep.

Calanthe’s fingertips gently brush against his elbow, just enough to be felt. The towers of Cintra loom before them, as sharp and imposing as their queen. And like their queen, they call to him, pulling him closer with the warmest feelings of home.

**Author's Note:**

> What's that, you say? You need a smutty version of those future swimming lessons, you say? What luck! It's up next.


End file.
